Dr. Goldberg: You holding up okay?
Me: Uh-huh. Who is she fucking kidding? Mommy. Mommy. Shit fucker God bless it Motherhumper . . .
Dr. Goldberg: You have a very stubborn cervix—it doesn’t seem to want to open . . .
Me: Be strong, be strong. I’m crying, suck it up. It’s the only way. Remember the spermicide. Ouch, ouch, ouchum, ouchy . . . focus on a happy place . . . I’m in a field of poppies. There’s a cool breeze blowing against my . . . my voluptuous c-cup breasts. Golden Retriever puppies are frolicking in the field. I skip over to pet them, but I can’t move. Someone has shot an arrow into my vagina, pinning me to the ground. Dr. Goldberg is holding a bow, and she wants her arrow back. She starts yanking at the arrow, twisting it. The puppies are frantic, clawing at her as she slowly grinds the arrow out of me . . . fuck, fuck, fuck . . . she’s Satan. The fallen angel. The Angel of Death. She’s killing me . . . slowly. Fuck you, fucking asshole bitch. Fuck, fuck, fuck your mother . . .
Dr. Goldberg: I’m not making much progress here . . .
Me: That’s it. Stop. Stop doing whatever it is you’re doing. I’ve never felt that . . . level . . . of pain, ever—
Dr. Goldberg: Why didn’t you say something earlier? Since you’re uncomfortable, would you like me to numb your cervix?
Me: That’s an option?! Why didn’t you tell me that was an option? Yes. Numb it. Please.
Dr. Goldberg: I don’t typically start with the cervix numbed. I figure I’ll wait and see if the patient is uncomfortable—
Me: I think you should stop using the word “uncomfortable” to describe my level of “discomfort.”
Dr. Goldberg: Well, every woman’s cervix is different.
Me: Apparently. Pain level “eleven.” It’s “one” more.
Dr. Goldberg: This is one procedure I do that I’ve never had done to me. So, unfortunately, I can’t really tell my patients what to expect.
Me: Right. You should have them call me.
Dr. Goldberg: Let’s try this again, shall we?
Me: Don’t be afraid to use too much of that numbing stuff. Get it all over. Really rub it around. Be generous.
AFTER:
Me: Hello?
Adam: Hey, babe. How’d it go? How do you feel?
Me: Uncomfortable.
The Fine Print
So, maybe I didn’t read all the pamphlets I was supposed to. Okay, I skimmed—fine, I glanced at—them before I folded them into small origami-like squares and stuffed them into my wallet next to sunscreen receipts. It’s not like I had other great options, so what’s the point? If I had read them cover to cover, I would have known I might experience:• “Heavier and longer periods” (didn’t think possible)
• “More painful periods” (didn’t think possible)
• “Cramping and backache” (fun!)
• “Increased vaginal discharge” (no comment)
Golly, I can hardly wait!
The Shrink
Every doctor’s office waiting room has its own distinctive smell.
Dr. Bach’s:Rubbing alcohol
Sweet-and-sour pork
Old person’s medicine cabinet
Dr. Gregory’s:Lemon Pine-Sol
Day-old Maxwell grinds
Dr. Braun’s:Roses
Chanel no. 5
Chocolate croissants
The Shrink’s:Parliament lights
Stale urine . . . and . . . what else?
I can’t quite place it. It’s not sweet, exactly, or musky or old . . . or fruity or meaty, really . . . it’s . . . I don’t know if I’ve smelled it before, but it reminds me of. . . like a . . . maybe similar to . . . I don’t know, it’s like . . . a . . . like . . . “crazy.” I’ve always heard crazy had a smell, but I’ve never really smelled it until now. It smells kinda nice. It smells real nice.
Jesuschrist, I’m sweatin’ bullets. What’s taking so long? I have a sneaking suspicion I don’t want to divulge my deepest, darkest secrets and fears to a total, complete, and utter stranger. I need to be here. I need to be here. I’ve got to keep telling myself, I need to be here . . . I don’t really need to be here. I could probably buy a book to help me with my panic attacks. How to Conquer Your Fears; Attack of the Panic; You’re Not Going to Die (at least not right now).
I know shrinks aren’t just for crazy people anymore. It’s not only artists who seek psychological assistance these days. Not just the “creative” types, the “quiet” ones, the “I’m hearing a voice and no one’s talking to me” types. Doctors, lawyers, investment bankers—they all go. Yeah, if they can, so can I. Right. I’m not crazy. I’m just . . . “sensitive.” I need to be here. I need to be here. Everyone goes to shrinks. Everyone I know goes, has gone, will go again soon. Except my husband . . . and father . . . and brother. They’ll never go. Ever. Still, everything is going to be okay. Remain calm, all’s well . . . ooh, the door’s opening . . .
Man: Take care. I’ll see you next week.
Woman: Um-kay.
This woman standing before me appears to be in her early forties. Obese. Very obese. Morbidly so. Her hair, if in fact that is hair, is greasy and stringy and could very well be a host to several extinct organisms. And she’s wearing what are commonly referred to as “pj’s.” Flannel pj’s. Flannel pj’s with butterflies and ladybugs. And she’s clinging to a mangled teddy bear, and she’s wearing reindeer slippers. The reindeers’ antlers have bells attached to them and make a Christmas jingle as she shuffles toward the exit. And she’s crying, and giggling. A giggly cry, a whiny cryish giggle. Like that disturbing combination of sounds that leaks out from under the masks of madmen and killers in all those ’80s horror movies I used to peek at through my index and middle finger at sleepovers. This woman scares me. She scares me bad. And she smells really fucking crazy.
Man: Hillary?
Me: Yes?
Man: Come on in. I’m Dr. Lesaux. Nice to meet you.
Me: Hi.
Dr. Lesaux: . . . and here we are.
Me: Great. This office is so dark. Blinds closed, lights dimmed. Jesuschrist. Can we get some lights on in here before I go into a deep depression? Should I tell him I’m light-sensitive, that I need some overhead brightness, some footlights, or sidelights? A pin light could even do the trick if pointed directly at my face . . . something with a bulb, for fuck’s sake.
Dr. Lesaux: You can take this seat right here, if you like. Would you like me to open the blinds or keep them closed? My last client likes it dark.
Me: Whichever. I’m easy.
Dr. Lesaux: I’ll open them. Just tell me if it’s too much light in your eyes. And let me move this coffee table back a bit. You have slightly longer legs than my last patient.
Me: Our only difference.
Dr. Lesaux: So, let me get my notes. I know I wrote down how you got my name . . . ah, here it is . . . let me see . . . oh, you know Muriel.
Me: Yeah.
Dr. Lesaux: And you’re a patient over at St. John’s.
Me: Right.
Dr. Lesaux: Uh-huh . . . and . . . well, great. Great to meet you. Did Muriel tell you anything about my background or—
Me: Just that you have experience counseling younger cancer patients.
Dr. Lesaux: Yes, and Muriel and I go way back. She’s been recommending patients to me for close to fifteen years now . . . So, I’d like to start by just getting some background information from you. How does that sound? Oh, and I have to set this alarm. It keeps me from running over with the time.
Me: Oh. Okay.
Dr. Lesaux: Great. Have you ever been in therapy before?
Me: Um, yes.
Dr. Lesaux: And when was that?
Me: Well, about four—no, um, like five or six—years ago.
Dr. Lesaux: Uh-huh.
Me: When I was in college.
Dr. Lesaux: Uh-huh.
Me: . . . in New York. . . at NYU.
Dr. Lesaux: And were you seeing someone to work through something specific, o
r—
Me: I was having some . . . weight issues.
Dr. Lesaux: I see. Like, anorexia? Bulimia?
Me: Um, yeah . . . bulimia. He’s a toughie.
Dr. Lesaux: And did you feel like the therapy was successful?
Me: Definitely. My therapist, she was great.
Dr. Lesaux: Ok, good. I’m glad it was a positive experience for you. So, besides being treated for bulimia, you haven’t been in therapy?
Me: Correct.
Dr. Lesaux: Uh-huh.
Me:
Dr. Lesaux: And family history. Has anyone else in your family ever been in therapy?
Me: Yes.
Dr. Lesaux: And what were they treated for?
Me: Depression.
Dr. Lesaux: Okay . . . let’s talk about your family in more detail for a—
Me: Just so you know, I’m actually here because I’ve been having panic attacks and my internist thought you might be able to give me some breathing exercises or something. Aside from the panic attacks, I’ve been feeling pretty good. A little anxious, but good. And as far as my family’s concerned, I actually worked out most of my issues with them when I was in therapy in New York. I’ve, um, you know, “changed my expectations” about certain relationships, and, well, I feel pretty comfortable with everything, my life and stuff. So we can just, like, focus on the panic attacks. I mean, I have trouble on the freeways. That’s my biggest issue. It’s starting to be a real bitch, having to drive in the slow lane all the time. I get the attacks when I’m in the middle lane. I mean, I’m normally a really fast driver. An aggressive driver. I’ve started to be able to live with the anxiety attacks. I know what they are when they’re happening. And mostly, they don’t interfere with my daily routine—just sometimes. So that’s why I’m here. I wanted to make everything clear. I don’t want to waste your time. Or my time. Anyone’s time. So, yeah. Just the panic attacks, really. Don’t need to get into much else. Just need a couple breathing techniques or whatever you normally recommend. Exercises or something. Because, on the whole, I’ve been feeling pretty good. Strong. Clear-minded. Together. You know, considering . . . everything.
Dr. Lesaux: I’m picking up a slight resistance.
Me: To?
Dr. Lesaux: To your being here.
Me: No, no, no. I want to be here . . . I just wanted it to be clear why I’m here.
Dr. Lesaux: Why did you want it to be clear?
Me: Because . . . I . . . don’t want you to waste your time dealing with things that don’t need to be dealt with. Things that have already been dealt with . . . before . . . by me.
Dr. Lesaux: I understand.
Me: Great.
Dr. Lesaux: You want me to understand you have everything under control.
Me: Right.
Dr. Lesaux: And that you are feeling “pretty good.”
Me: Yeah.
Dr. Lesaux: That you just need some breathing exercises.
Me: Correct.
Dr. Lesaux: Well, I will be able to give you some breathing exercises. But first I think we need to take a look at a couple of things. In order for your anxiety to go away, we need to find the root of it. And I don’t mean the cancer, necessarily. I wouldn’t be a good doctor if I only treated the symptoms and not the problem. The panic attacks are the result of something deeper. That’s what we must uncover. Together. I understand that this is scary, but you have already gotten over the biggest hurdle. You’re here. You called me . . . several times . . . made an appointment, and came. So now we have to get to the “why” of why you came. And it’s not because you’re having panic attacks. That, I can guarantee. So, we must look closer. Chart the uncharted. So, I’d like you to start thinking about patterns. For the next week, keep a journal of your daily activities. Also, be aware of your thoughts and thought patterns: if you’re particularly anxious, what you’re anxious about, that kind of thing. I’d like to try to pinpoint the thoughts that precede your attacks. If we can get rid of the negative thinking, then—
Me: Ok. But—
Dr. Lesaux: I’d also like to give you this handout on patterns of negative thinking. I wrote this a couple of weeks ago. It was prompted by one of my callers—I host a radio call-in show once a week.
Me: “If You Build It, He Will Come: An in-depth look at the power of thought,” by renowned radio personality Dr. Thomas Lesaux.
Dr. Lesaux: Field of Dreams.
Me: Yeah, I got the reference. It’s one of my favorite—
Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.
Dr. Lesaux: Time.
N.E.D.
Driving to Santa Monica from West Hollywood stands as a constant reminder of how very little I know about traffic in Los Angeles. Since I somehow arrived twenty-five minutes early for my appointment, I’m doomed to wander the hospital halls in search of something—anything— the least bit entertaining. I’d love to find a cart with a few dozen rubber gloves. I’d even be satisfied to round up some of those heavy-duty, hospital-quality round Band-Aids. I love those Band-Aids. So far, though, everything seems to be under pretty tight surveillance, lock and key and all that . . . Maybe I should check the fourth floor, the Joyce Eisenberg Keefer Breast Center (a.k.a. where the money goes). They have all the good stuff. Their snack area is always overflowing with lemon rose and peppermint tea, Keebler graham crackers, and Ghirardelli hot chocolate mix—luxury compared with the third floor’s stash of generic saltines (I thought Saltines were generic) and Lipton iced-tea packets, which I can only assume are meant to be used with water from the drinking fountain. They have leather wingback chairs and decorative oriental rugs. We have worn sofa chairs and faded gray carpet. They even have a boutique up there on the fourth floor that sells . . . stuff. I’m not exactly sure what kind of stuff—I’ve never betrayed my peeps long enough to go in—but I know it’s there. The Positive Appearance Center—you can’t miss it. Its gold placard practically blinds you as you step off the elevator into the Joyce Eisenberg Keefer blah blah blah. Everyone and their grandmother bends over backward to raise money for breast cancer. Men, women, and children alike can’t write checks fast enough in support of the good ol’ breast. Long live the breast! Three cheers for the boob! Another round of applause for the tits! And the crowd goes wild! If they could pull themselves away from their pretty-in-pink ribbons for a goddamned second, they might be able to see that melanoma could use a little cash once in a blue moon.
Not that I’m bitter or anything. Not that I resent little miss popularity and all of her friends. Not that I mind being the misfit, the freak on the third floor, the one with the black ribbon, the one everybody laughs at and no one wants to eat lunch with just because I was a foot taller than the average middle-school gym teacher! I bet the breast cancer center has an abundance of those heavy-duty, hospital-quality round Band-Aids! I bet they’re practically giving them away up there. I’m gonna go clean them out. I may even take a few extra packets of hot chocolate. So there!
Half an hour and four cups of hot chocolate later:
Not sure why I got dressed this morning. Not sure why I put on underwear, bra, T-shirt, sweater, jeans, socks, shoes, and watch, only to drive to Dr. Gregory’s office, strip, and go back to sleep on the padded hospital table while desperately trying to cover my bare ass with this piece of tissue paper nurses refer to as a blanket. I’m still wearing my wool socks because I’d like to keep my toes . . . and I’m putting my sweater back on, over my hospital gown, because my nipples could cut glass right now.
Knock, knock.
Dr. Gregory: Are you decent?
Me: I’m naked. Does that qualify?
Dr. Gregory: Hello. Good to see you . . . that’s quite a get-up.
Me: Trying to keep warm.
Dr. Gregory: So . . . let’s take a look . . . uh-huh . . . great . . . scar looks good . . . let’s see . . . don’t see anything suspicious on your arms . . . I see a small place on your back that has a speck of dark pigment, but it’s very small, so just keep an eye on it . . .
Your dermatologist is doing regular body checks as well, correct?
Me: Oh, yeah. Also, I noticed a new mole the other day. It’s right . . . at the very, very bottom of my lower back.
Dr. Gregory: Yes, I see it. It’s very small. Let me get the light. It’s kinda hard to get a good look at it. Lie on your stomach for a second.
Me: Let’s be honest here. Lower, lower back equals upper, upper butt crack. So, yes, let me let you focus a bright light on my ass so you can examine a mole in my crack. I have no dignity. None at all anymore.
Dr. Gregory: I think it’s fine. Just keep an eye on it.
Me: Okay. That should be easy.
Dr. Gregory: Lymph nodes feel normal . . . everything looks good. Go ahead and get dressed, and then head over to the lab and Howard will draw your blood.
Me: You got it. Actually, if you have time, I’ve been doing some research online and I have a few questions.
Dr. Gregory: Okay, shoot.
Me: I’ve got my paper here . . . somewhere . . . okay. One: Do you test my blood for ta90? Two: Would I benefit from interferon therapy? Three: Does this hospital conduct any melanoma vaccine clinical trials? Four: Will staying out of the sun reduce my risk for a recurrence? And Five: How do you know, or I know, or does anyone know, for sure that I’m cancer free? . . . I sound so . . . doctorly, huh?
Dr. Gregory: Someone’s been doing her homework. You may have to repeat some of that . . .
Me: Would you like to take the last part first?
Dr. Gregory: No, that’s okay, let’s see . . . you mentioned ta90. Ta90 is a glycoprotein that researchers claimed could predict metastatic disease and survival for early-stage-melanoma patients. Years ago, we started testing our patients for the presence of ta90 and then followed them for three, five, seven years to see if the ta90 patients were, in fact, less likely to have a recurrence. Unfortunately, we didn’t find any correlation. I can order the test for you, if you’d like, but the results won’t mean all that much.
Pale Girl Speaks Page 6
